


And the river Isen was running low

by heckofabecca



Series: Across The Fords [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/heckofabecca
Summary: A year ago, he had begged to meet again. Now, he regrets every bit of it.Set one year afterLaying the Stones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's part 4 of the story of Gwir and Maderun. Again, here I am exploring a POV that is not going to be sympathetic to everyone. But what else did you expect from a heathen like me? :P
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The summer was a dry one, and the river Isen was running low. A year ago, the flooding had spread over the riverbank, but there was no hint of that now. The grasses by the river were stiff and yellow, and only a few patches of wildflowers bloomed in sight of the fords. The morning sun was still low in the eastern sky, casting a long shadow before of the two riders heading west.

Éomund shifted in the saddle and glanced at his companion. Peada was a slight, middle-aged man with a deceptively innocent face. But Éomund knew how wickedly he used that hooked spear of his—and how many secrets he kept safe. And today was a day for secrets.

It was a fortnight after Midsummer. Today was the day that Éomund, Marshal of the Riddermark, was going to face his misdeeds.

Éomund gripped the reins, mouth tight and jaw clenched. Twelve months had he spent regretting his weakness in succumbing to his desire for the Wild Woman, and only a strange sense of duty brought him back now. How many times had he sworn he would not come here today? How many times had he changed his mind when the thought of her sweet dark eyes stirred him? Even now…

He shook his head, hard. None of this! He had to be stronger than before. He owed it to his family, to his wife and son. Théodwyn and Éomer did not deserve such treatment, least of all from him. When Éomund had returned home from his prolonged sojourn last year, Théodwyn had looked upon him with her cool gray eyes smiling. She had passed him the welcome cup and pressed her fingers over his. He should have fallen on his face and begged her forgiveness, but his own cowardice had prevented him. Even now, he did not know if she suspected anything. If a rumor had spread of his behavior, it had not reached his ears. But his wife had always been more perceptive.

Théodwyn had bid him farewell a week past wearing the same red dress he had brought her a year ago. The sight of it made his stomach twist every time she wore it, but what was he supposed to say? That it looked had looked better on another?

Éomund dismounted. Peada did the same and wordlessly took Éomund’s reins. Éomund headed down towards the river. Dry silt crunched under his feet as he knelt at the edge of the water to splash his face. The morning wasn’t hot, but his muddled thoughts left him warm and uncomfortable.

The last few nights, Éomund had been at the Hornburg with Erkenbrand. Erkenbrand had been there a year ago, but he had said nothing of Éomund’s weakness then and he said nothing of it now. He had only sent word ahead to the fords so the men there would expect him.

But no one at the fords, save Éomund, was expecting a Wild Woman to show up.

Éomund was about a half-mile south of the eyot, the small island that split the fords of Isen. Last year’s camp had been only a few hundred feet from where Peada was keeping watch from up on the ridge. Éomund leaned back against the slope; the shadows of Peada and the horses shifted on the water’s surface.

One hour passed, and then another. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and Éomund broke his fast with dried meat and fruit. As the morning went on and the heat began to seep in, Éomund drank more and more from his waterskin. He had to refill it not long before noon.

Peada tossed down a packed lunch once the sun reached its peak. Sausage, cheese, and fresh bread were usually heavenly after a long morning, but now the smell turned his stomach. Éomund sat heavily on the packed sand and forced down a few bites of bread.

He felt like a greater fool than ever. A year he’d spent debating whether to come, and he’d never wondered whether there would even be anyone to meet.

Éomund buried his hands in his hair and shut his eyes. Even now, he could remember her perfectly. Her beautiful face, her dark hair, the feel of her in his hands… The fiery retorts she had spat at him in her strange language, the words incomprehensible but her meaning always clear. Her smile, her warm embrace…

_Enough_ , he told himself. He hadn’t come here to relive the past. His encounter with the Wild Woman was a stain on his honor. Weakness had led him to arrange this meeting, and he still wasn’t sure whether it would have been weakness or strength to avoid it. But he was at the fords now, and he would not turn back. His pride would not let him.

Would her pride do the same for her?

 

* * *

 

“My lord!”

Éomund jerked awake and cracked his eyes open. The sun was in his eyes; was it late afternoon already?

“There are some Dunlendings approaching from the west,” Peada called down. “One is a woman.”

Éomund leapt to his feet, heart pounding. He scrambled up the bank and shielded his eyes as he peered across the river. Yes, there was a group of Dunlendings approaching. Four of them, and one was a woman. They were too far off for Éomund to yet be sure it was her, so he waited.

As the minutes passed, certainty began to set it. That was her dogged walk, that was her thick dark hair. She even spotted him and Peada on the ridge and angled her party towards them. Soon enough, they reached the bank.

“Stay here,” Éomund ordered Peada. He slid down to the water’s edge and watched the Dunlendings across the river. After a brief, inaudible argument, two of the men stayed atop the bank across from Peada. The Wild Woman and the shortest of her companions came down. Once they were settled, the two men passed a basket down to them. The woman clutched the basket close for a moment, then passed it to the man, who took it gingerly.

Finally, she turned to face him.

Éomund swallowed. There she was. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her face and body were rounder, softer than before, and her eyes widened at the sight of him. He waded into the river, mindless of anything but her. She spoke once more to the man with the basket, and then strode towards him through the water.

She was dressed in a long tunic and leggings, with her thick dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her sleeves were rolled up, leaving her arms bare to the elbow.

They met halfway and paused some feet apart. Her expression was torn between relief and determination, and his heart fell when he saw how little tenderness was in her eyes. Had he imagined all of her warmth? Had she never cared for him at all?

“Well,” she said, “here I am.” She shifted her weight and twisted a bit of her hair around her finger. “Are you convinced I am real?”

Éomund reached out to touch her, but the widening of her eyes made him pause. He dropped his hand and flexed it. How he longed to touch her! Maybe then she would look at him with her sweet dark eyes again and—

A picture of his wife and son flashed in his mind.

His own eyes widened and he stepped back hastily. “You are real,” he said gruffly. “I was foolish to doubt.”

At that, a tiny smile spread on her face, though it died quickly. “Quite.” She looked at him searchingly. “I have been wondering how much you will regret this meeting.”

“I regret it already,” he blurted.

She drew back a step and crossed her arms tightly over her stomach. Her face was pinched with bitterness.

Éomund looked away. The two men up on the western bank were muttering together, watching the meeting closely. The slighter man on the shore was kneeling by the basket, and he glanced at Éomund with a strange, calculating look on his face. He was unthreatening, but still his frank assessment bothered Éomund. Who was this man to inspect him like that?

“Leave them.”

Éomund flinched and turned his gaze back to the woman before him.

“I am not so craven as to avoid the eyes of men who stare at me,” he snapped.

“You did not come here to look at them,” she said. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “You came here to see me. And I am here. You must have something to say, so say it. We are here because of you. So you should speak first.”

He opened his mouth, but his courage failed him. Why? He still knew with nauseating certainty that he had done wrong and must atone for it. But something about her, standing shameless before him, beautiful and fierce, swallowed his resolve.

And what did she mean, speak first? Did she have something to say? Éomund could not imagine what she might want to tell him. He tried to read her intentions in her face, but all he could see was frustration.

“Speak,” she urged, and for the first time he sensed her urgency.

She _did_ have something to say, and she was itching to say it. But she would not lower herself by speaking first.

Éomund took a deep breath and stilled his twitching hands at his sides.

“You must forgive me,” he said.

Her eyes widened in shock, then she frowned. “I did not come to absolve you, Marshal.” She tilted her head to study him; her gaze softened. “You did no wrong to me.”

He thought of the gifts he had tried to bestow upon her—Théodwyn’s red dress, for one—and her disgust as his offerings. “Did I not?”

“No.”

Her tone was final. She would not submit to mentioning his family, Éomund realized. They both knew the unspoken truth: his only true repentance could be from confessing and begging forgiveness from his wife and son. This woman before him, this beautiful and strange woman, had nothing more for him.

And Éomund had nothing more to say.

So he gestured towards her. “Your turn,” he said. “Surely you came for a reason.”

The woman swallowed. “I did.” She glanced behind her and tossed her head at the man with the basket, who glanced with trepidation at Éomund and shook his head. The woman huffed. She turned back to Éomund and held up a finger. “Do not go. I will come back.”

She stamped back to the western shore. Éomund was left standing alone in the middle of the river, water lapping around his boots. Part of him yearned to leave. If he left now, there would be no chance of any of the Dunlendings catching them. And if they did, Peada would make quick work of them.

No. That would not do. He could not prove himself the coward he had claimed not to be by deserting. So he watched, curious, as the woman argued in low tones with her companion. The fellow did not seem to want to part with his basket, and the woman had to pry it from his hands.

Éomund could not understand it. What could possibly be in there?

The woman glanced behind her at Éomund. She thrust the basket back at her companion and picked something out of it. She took a deep breath. Then, she turned back.

All of the breath left Éomund’s lungs. Nausea boiled in his stomach, and he had to swallow to keep down the few bites of bread he’d eaten at noon.

Clutched in the woman’s arms was a baby.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is your daughter,” the Wild Woman said. She held out the child to Éomund.
> 
> As if he would touch the creature! Éomund stepped back and shook his head. “If she is mine, I will not claim her.”
> 
> The woman hissed, fury and distress marring her face. She drew her daughter close and gently stroked her cheek. For a brief moment, her face was as soft and warm as he remembered. Looking at the baby seemed to restore her strength, and she turned back to him with fire in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's the second half. Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day! Reviews are always welcome!
> 
> ALERT: This chapters has brief mentions of rape and suicide.

The woman waded back to the middle of the river, dark eyes fixed determinedly on Éomund. The bundle in her arms was still and quiet and small.

Éomund could do no more than stare as the Wild Woman drew near. She came closer to him than before and drew back the swaddling until the baby’s face was revealed. Its skin was far paler than any Dunlending he had seen before, and its nose was tiny. Sparse dark hair barely covered the baby’s scalp.

“This is your daughter,” the Wild Woman said. She held out the child to Éomund.

As if he would touch the creature! Éomund stepped back and shook his head. “If she is mine, I will not claim her.”

The woman hissed, fury and distress marring her face. She drew her daughter close and gently stroked her cheek. For a brief moment, her face was as soft and warm as he remembered. Looking at the baby seemed to restore her strength, and she turned back to him with fire in her eyes.

“What happened to you, Marshal?” she demanded. “You were so kind.”

“Aye,” he agreed roughly. “I tried to be. But I curse my weakness daily!” The sight of the woman before him was growing repugnant. He swallowed bile at the thought of Théodwyn, of Éomer.

“You knew what you were doing!” She glanced away; shame flitted for the first time across her face. “We both knew.”

“So why all this, hm?” Éomund gestured to the bundle in her arms. “You regret it all, don’t you? So why do you bring the child? Why did you even keep it?” A sick hope flared. “You regret it all as I do!”

“I do not,” she declared. She jutted her chin out. “You think I am as weak as you are, but I am not. You want me to feel as guilty as you do, but I don’t. You can’t trick me into acting as though you were forced into this. You knew better than I the consequences.”

“Did I?” Éomund crossed his arms.

She flushed. “You think I make a habit of bedding the men who call me beautiful?” Her gaze dropped; at the sight of her child, she squeezed shut her eyes. “You are the only man I have ever been with.”

Éomund opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked once more at the baby. She was tiny, far tinier than Éomer had been at three months. But Éomer had been nearly bald as a child, too, and this babe was too pale to be fully Dunlendish.

“You know as well as I do that she is yours,” the woman insisted. “Why have you turned cruel? How can you treat your own child like this?” She held out the baby to him again, eyes pleading.

He reached out his hand and touched the baby’s cheek. Holding the child in his arms felt like too much of an admission of his guilt, but her little cheek was soft and warm. She was still asleep in her mother’s arms.

“What is her name?” he found himself asking. His hand strayed to the soft, thin hair over her forehead. The baby turned her head against his fingers.

“Gwir verch Maderun.” The woman paused. “Gwir, daughter of Maderun.”

Éomund’s eyes snapped to the woman’s. She held his gaze.

“Your name is Maderun?” Éomund asked. She nodded. He had not known her name before. Had it really never occurred to him to ask? Apparently not.

Did she know _his_ name?

“Gwir,” he repeated. He stroked the baby’s head one last time and clasped his hands behind his back. “Daughter of Éomund.”

Maderun’s shoulders dropped and her face lightened. Tension seeped out of her; she looked as young and pretty as she had a year ago. “So you accept her?”

“Accept her?” At this, he drew back a little. “I won’t deny she’s mine to _you_ , but—”

“Your people need not know,” she interrupted. “They don’t… need to know. But my people do.” She took a breath to steady herself and looked into his eyes. “Right now, our child is the daughter of a whore.”

Éomund’s face darkened. He narrowed his eyes at the men on the riverbank, but they only stared back stonily. “You are no whore,” he told Maderun.

“No?” She let out a hollow laugh. “Why else would I lie with our enemy? You think more than one in a hundred believe that my heart was in it? Or that I was fully willing?” She paused and fixed him with a strong glare. “Those two men up there think you raped me, and they’ve come to make sure you pay for it.”

“What?!” The accusation was a punch in the gut. How could they accuse him of such a thing? Even as a brainless youth, he’d never even touched an unwilling woman. Éomund glared up at the two Dunlendings and clenched his fists; his breath came heavy. “I would rather kill them than pay for what I did not do!”

Maderun winced, adjusted Gwir against her shoulder, and reached out her free hand to placate him, but she drew back before she actually touched him. Her hesitance made him all the more furious.

“And did you encourage them in this… this false charge?”

“I should have,” she said. “More would have believed that than what I tried to tell them. Reys—” she jerked her head back towards the man with the basket—“believes me, but few others do. But if I did spout that lie, it would have ended badly for my people.” At his bewildered look, she added, “They would have tried to pay your people back.”

“With what?” he asked bitingly. “Death, or more of the same?”

She stuck her hand on her hip. Her chin was set; her eyes flashed. “As if your people wouldn’t do just that! You think my people are so uncivilized, but yours are blameless? Don’t be a fool, Marshal.”

The baby let out a little wail. Maderun rocked Gwir against her shoulder, supporting her head with her other hand. “Shh, shh, shh.” She hummed a little song. The fire of her fury had gone out of her.

Éomund watched as Maderun calmed the baby back to sleep. Her sentiments were foolish, the misunderstanding of a stranger. The Éorlingas were nothing like the Dunlendings; how could she think that? No Wild Man would have fished a woman of the Mark out of the river Isen.

All in all, he was glad he’d come. The more she said, the less her presence seemed to touch him. Her beauty was still obvious, but it drew him in no longer. He felt no more longing, and he felt no more guilt. His actions a year ago seemed a strange, half-forgotten dream.

Gwir, the baby, was quiet again. Maderun sighed. “There’s no point in arguing about it,” she said. “Our people are enemies. That is how has always been.”

“Then what else is there?” Éomund crossed his arms. “I have no desire to linger here.”

“Well, nor do I.” Maderun shifted her weight and cradled the baby close. “But I need something from you.” At his incredulous look, she added, “For Gwir.”

“You want money? How much?”

Maderun’s lip curled unpleasantly. “Money? No. I do not want your money.” She looked pointedly at his crossed arms. “My daughter needs a birthright.”

Éomund glanced down and flinched when he realized what Maderun hoped for. His seal ring! The marker of his house, his badge of honor. He could not give that up. “No,” he said with finality. He clenched his hands together. “You cannot have it.”

Maderun stamped her foot. “It is not for me,” she said, jaw set. “Gwir is your daughter! She deserves something from you.”

“I cannot give my seal away,” he declared. “It is for my son, when I die.”

“Then give something else.”

“I have nothing else worth giving.”

“Then you _must_ give Gwir your seal.” Maderun’s fierceness was dissolving into desperation. “You are cursing her with the worst kind of life! And you do it with no more feeling than if you were swatting a fly.”

At that, Éomund stiffened. “My feelings are for my wife and son,” he said sharply.

“And mine are for _our_ daughter!” Tears began to flood Maderun’s dark eyes. She wiped her cheek on her shoulder. “Look at her, Éomund! Look! Does she deserve the life you are condemning her to?”

She had never spoken his name before. He could not take his eyes from her face. How could he have thought he was inured to her? The sound of her wavering voice, the softness of her lips…

Maderun stepped closer and thrust Gwir against his chest. Horrified, Éomund grabbed the baby. He adjusted his hold at once, though he held his daughter at a careful distance. _His daughter._

“You might have dropped her!”

“If you give her nothing, one day she will jump in the water herself,” Maderun stated.

“Or perhaps she will be grateful not to know who her craven father really was.” Éomund looked down at Gwir, away from Maderun.

“She will never think you are a coward.” Maderun pressed a hand against his arm; it was the closest she had been to him since—well, since. “Gwir will know you were a good man. But if she has nothing from you, it will be as though she had no father at all.”

He was being played, and he knew it, but all of his defenses and arguments crumbled in the face of her pleading eyes.

Éomund adjusted Gwir in his arms so he could twist his seal ring off of his finger. “Take her,” he said, and Maderun quickly took the baby back, eyes wide. Éomund twisted his ring in front of his eyes and tried to memorize the sweeping lines of the image stamped into the silver face: Éorl crossing into the Fields of Celebrant.

“It will not fit her,” he said, thinking aloud.

Maderun turned around and tilted her head to bare the back of her neck. “Use my necklace.”

He swallowed and untied the leather cord around her neck, trying not to touch her. Once, he had brushed his fingers down her neck and across her shoulder; an echo of that past desire touched him now, but only barely. He still clenched his teeth against the feeling.

Once he had undone the knot, Maderun pulled the cord away from her neck and slipped the wooden pendant from it between the folds of Gwir’s swaddling cloth. Éomund wordlessly took the cord from her and slipped it through his ring. He squeezed it one last time before tying the cord around his daughter’s neck. He brushed Gwir’s sleeping face with his fingers and stepped back.

Maderun’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you,” she said. Her wide, dark eyes shone with unshed tears, and her full lips were pressed into a shaky smile.

Éomund knew that this was the time to go, but no words came. He only stared at her, wondering what had happened to his resolve. There had never been anything so beautiful as the woman standing before him.

Gwir began to shift in her mother’s arms, and Maderun sniffed and hefted Gwir up against her shoulder. She met Éomund’s eyes with a smile. “She’s hungry,” she said. A beat of silence passed, and then she said, “Goodbye.”

He nodded briskly and turned back to the eastern shore. He could hear Maderun wading away, but he kept going until he was out of the water and up the bank. It was not until he was back on his horse that Éomund turned back. Maderun was on the other side of the river, scrambling up the western bank with the help of her three companions. She paused there, but she did not look back before the small party started off.

Éomund clicked his tongue and headed back towards the Hornburg.


End file.
